


gardens of blossoming

by FlameofUtterBoredom



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Feels, Family Reunions, Gallifrey, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Refugees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28650618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameofUtterBoredom/pseuds/FlameofUtterBoredom
Summary: In which the Doctor is finally given a bit of hope, courtesy of her human friends.Aka, the family reunion fic no one ever asks for but I, a poor Big Finish fan, desperately want.
Relationships: Martha Jones/Mickey Smith
Comments: 17
Kudos: 61





	gardens of blossoming

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure, self-indulgent nonsense born out of my dislike for Chibs blowing Gallifrey up again. Let 13 Have Good Things. Please.
> 
> Some foreknowledge of the Big Finish audios might be useful for this story, but in case you haven’t listened to these just know that it explores the Doctor’s extended family a bit more and establishes that they have a brother named Braxiatel, commonly assumed to be, 1. older than them, and 2, a bit of a bastard, and that Susan had a half-human son named Alex, who wanted to be an architect and knew very little of his alien heritage. Alex was genetically 93% human, and couldn’t regenerate. Now go check out Big Finish. They’re delightful.
> 
> Enjoy!

**_Deep Space, year unknown._ **

Time passes slowly in the Judoon facility. She has assigned a small segment of her brain to counting the seconds as they pass. It’s what her species is good at. Was. What her species was good at. No. _Their_ species, not hers. It’s what _she’s_ good at, separate from _their_ species – or perhaps _they_ were good at it because _she_ was, or perhaps the Master is a big fat liar or the biggest fool in the universe and killed their species on a whim –

The Doctor throws her breakfast tray against the opposite wall with a shout. The thick gray porridge slowly trickles down the wall. It makes for an interesting change from the perfect white steel. Well, interesting is not, perhaps, the right word, but it gives her something to look at as she imagines strangling the Master until he chokes on his lies.

Or perhaps she would force-feed him the porridge. Its recipe is certainly intended to drive one to the brink. She grins to herself, half mad. He is dead too, of course. For now, at least. He’s never been very good at staying dead. She thinks and hates and thinks and hates and thinks and –

The warden will return to her cell in approximately twenty-six micro spans. He’s a punctual man. He will ask her questions again. Perhaps they will take more blood. The inside of her elbow is still bruised from his previous visits. She thinks, briefly, about drawing on that reservoir of Artron energy that lies at the core of her to see if she can heal it. To see if – if the Master really – if she’s really –

The Doctor blinks furiously and turns towards the window. Outside, the vastness of space stretches on and on. There is no one out there. No one, ever again. The point is driven into her hearts and bones and soul again and again, with increasingly blunt instruments.

 _Then that is your punishment_ , the Moment echoes. _You’ll survive_.

With a detached kind of curiosity, she wonders how long it will take to get out of here. It’s not coming up with a plan that worries her. It’s whether she will bother with escaping at all.

The universe disagrees. So, it seems, does Jack Harkness.

* * *

**_London, May 2019_ **

Martha’s Tuesday starts as all her Tuesdays do. She wakes up at six to the excited babble of her son and the tired grumble of her husband. She showers, provides for her boy, and watches with amusement as her husband quickly gobbles up his breakfast and runs off to work after a quick wet kiss to her cheek.

She puts August in the back of the car and together they sing along to his favorite tune on the radio. She drops him off at his kindergarten, and returns to her car, looking forward to heading home, propping her feet up, and watching the new season of _Fleabag_. Days off are rare, in her profession, and she has every intention of making the best of her free time.

She’s just put her key in the ignition when her phone rings. Of course it does. It’s not exactly unusual, given her professional life usually involves alien invasions or, at the very least, some form of alien subterfuge; there’s no such thing as normal working hours. Most of the time she gets away with an hour or two of consultation on the condition of this or that alien refugee/prisoner/insert-status-here, and then she can get back to work at the hospital, treating human patients.

No such luck.

“The quicker you can make it, the better,” Kate Stewart’s harried voice says on the other side of the line. “We’d best not take any chances.”

“Hold on, how many refugees did you say there were?” Martha asks, already programming her new direction into the navigator.

“We’ve only just finished counting, it’s been barely an hour since we discovered them – Osgood, what’s the official count? Sixty-seven? God – sixty-seven, apparently, and twenty-six of them children.”

“Which is where I come in.”

Kate hesitates. “Well, you are our only consultant who also happens to be a pediatrician. But no – that’s not why. It’s –“ she sighs audibly. “We also need you because of your, ah, _other_ experiences.”

Martha’s fingers clench around her phone. The air feels thin. “Is _he_ with you, then?”

“No, Martha, but the refugees claim to be Gallifreyan,” Kate says, and the world stops.

Martha stares out of her windshield across the parking lot. It’s bustling with other parents who just dropped off their kids, getting into their cars and heading to work. It’s a day like any other, but it just became something completely new.

She finds her voice again.

 **“** Gallifreyan? You’re absolutely sure they said Gallifreyan?” Martha asks.

“We were as surprised as you, believe me. But yes, that’s what they said – and our scans confirm it. Double heartbeat, and everything. Look, just come to HQ. I will explain everything else once you get there.”

“I – yeah. Yeah, of course. I’ll be there.”

Martha hangs up the phone and stares at her steering wheel. Her jaw clenches. Half a minute passes. Then she nods to herself, grabs her phone, and fires off a text to Mickey. Next she runs through the contact list, finds the J for Jack, and hits the call button. There's no reply.

* * *

“First things first, I need to reintroduce you to the Black Archives,” Kate says, when Martha enters HQ.

“Or you could say hi.”

“Hi. Black Archives, now,” Kate says, and strides down the hallway to the left, apparently expecting Martha to keep up.

“Aye aye, Captain,” Martha says, under her breath, and rushes to keep up. Her legs aren’t nearly as long as Kate’s, so she has to work at it.

Kate throws a grimace over her shoulder. “I do apologize, Doctor Jones – things are a little hectic right now. We have sixty-seven refugees to screen, for which we definitely don’t have the manpower.”

“I get it. Are they really –”

“We’ve developed some pretty accurate scanning technology over the years, what with the occasional Master-incursion. Still, you’re the one with hands-on experience.”

Martha’s eyebrows rise. “If by that you mean I’ve given the Doctor CPR, then sure. I’m not sure it counts.”

“Look, it might also help us gain the refugees’ trust if we introduce them to someone who has experience with their species. I’ve met the Doctor too, of course, but he’s never been my friend. He _is_ yours,” Kate retorts.

Martha manages not to scoff. “I haven’t heard from him in ten years.”

“But that’s what he’s like, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean he’s not your friend anymore. He was my father’s friend until the end, even though they rarely saw each other.”

Martha’s expression softens. “I know. It’s just hard to remember, sometimes.”

“If it helps, our records show he’s been pretty busy the past decade,” Kate says, and turns another corner. She flashes her ID at a pair of guards and leads Martha through a reinforced steel door.

“You’re _tracking_ him?”

“As much as it’s possible to track him. Actually, I suppose it’s fair to say we’re tracking his companions,” Kate says, glancing back at Martha. “Which isn’t easy either, but it’s easier to look at young people who’ve stopped coming to work or people who have disappeared altogether than it is to track a time traveling, space traveling alien who can change faces.”

Kate stops before another sealed door, which at her nod is opened by a guard. Behind it Martha sees what looks to be a painting of what she thinks must be hell – a burning city, beleaguered by Daleks. Men and women in lab coats surround it, taking samples or scanning the thing. Martha recognizes Osgood, and manages a limp wave of her hand.

“ _Gallifrey Falls No More_ ,” Kate says, gesturing at it. “Four-dimensional art, which as it turns out can also serve as a gateway between worlds. Even worlds trapped in a time lock, if you’re clever enough. That’s how the Doctor explained it, anyway, when we first got wind of this thing back in 2013.”

Martha stares breathlessly. “That’s Gallifrey? The actual planet, _trapped in a painting_?”

“Not quite, but close enough. It allowed the Doctor to step through on to his home planet and change the outcome of the war.”

Martha whips around to stare at Kate, heart skipping a beat. “He – he what? He changed..?”

“The outcome of the war, yes. From what I understand he managed to avoid blowing it up, this time around. Mind you, this was back in 2013.”

Martha thinks of sitting on a cold, plastic chair in New New York, listening to the loneliest man she’s ever met. For a moment, all she wants to do is laugh.

Then, hurt lances through Martha’s gut. Ten years of service, and this is what she gets. Perhaps it’s not fair to feel so betrayed, but inevitably, she does. “And no one bothered to tell his friends, I suppose? His _friends_?”

Kate’s expression sobers. “The more people who know they live, the more danger we are all in.”

Martha bites back a furious response and thinks. “If the wrong people were to find out –“

“We would have a resurgence of the last great Time War, yes,” Kate says gravely. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like letting that particular nightmare play out in our backyard.”

Martha feels a little faint. “No, no, of course not.”

Kate nods at her, and together they leave the safe once more. Martha’s mind whirs away, working at the problem, as they head towards Kate’s office. It doesn’t add up, but it’s hard to think while her emotions are going haywire. Gallifrey, alive. She can’t even imagine what that would mean for the Doctor, the one she knew. Just the possibility of it had been enough to entice him to return to the Time War, the place of his nightmares, to try and turn it around. She isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

“But if the Doctor saved Gallifrey, how come there are refugees?” She finally asks, once they’re safely inside Kate’s office.

Kate sighs, and pulls a manila folder from underneath her desk. There’s something in her eyes that Martha cannot immediately place. “I’m afraid this is where things get ugly,” she says, and taps one finger on the document’s name.

Martha follows her finger with her gaze, and feels her nausea rise. Now she recognizes the look in Kate’s eyes: it was pity.

In bold, crisp letters, the folder reads:

THE MASTER

TIME LORD

THREAT LEVEL 8

STATUS : ALIVE

* * *

Kate gives her the use of her office and a few minutes to recover, afterwards. Martha clings to her phone, and listens to her husband’s reassuring voice.

“We’re going to get through this, babe. All of us, together. We’re going to find the Doctor and kick some Master arse, you hear me? He’s not getting anywhere near you or our family, ever again,” he murmurs soothingly, as she lets her tears run.

“It’s _not fair_.”

“I know, babe, I know. If I could fix this for you, you know I would.”

“I hate him, _so much_.”

“I know.”

“And God, it’s so much worse now, we have _Gus._ ”

“Gus is going to be just fine, babe. The Master’s not here. He’s not here, and he’s not coming here. He would have to be daft, ‘cause we’re not going to leave any part of him standing if he does.”

It helps, but only a little. The trouble with the Master, of course, is that he _is_ daft.

* * *

The refugees are being kept in the hospital wing of UNIT HQ, which usually exists more in case of emergency than because it is actually regularly required. There’s not enough space for sixty-seven people, but needs must and UNIT thrives in emergency situations. They’ve already started procuring beds from nearby clinics and even, from the look of some of the mattresses, employees’ homes. Human nurses and guards walk through the masses, offering food, drinks and blankets.

The adults occupy the hallway and the surrounding chambers, all dressed in red. Martha sees some of them limping, others heavily scarred. One man lies on a gurney, seemingly uninjured. He stares up at the ceiling and the only reason she knows he isn’t dead is because every thirty or so seconds, he shudders uncontrollably.

There are children scattered throughout the room, and they’re breaking Martha’s heart.

The children sit quietly together in corners, or perched on mattresses, their eyes large and wide and frightened. A few of them are munching on sandwiches or drinking from cheap packets of soda cups of tea. Two children are grouped around a sheet of paper, which they’re slowly but steadily transforming into a pool of blue ink with the ballpoint pens one of Martha’s colleagues must have given them in lieu of crayons. Some look up when she approaches to look at her with wide, intelligent eyes. The children seem to range in age from toddlers to teenagers, varying as widely in skin tone and hair color as they do in age, and their clothes are a riot of colour and fit that Martha can’t find any patterns in, but the one thing all the children have in common is that none of them are playing.

It’s frightening, to see so many children silent. Martha thinks of her son, who is at this very moment probably eating sand or building blocks with his little kindergarten friends. She swallows, tries not to cry.

“As far as we’ve been able to establish, a woman named Arkytior is their leader. She helped them escape the last minute, through the painting. They look up to her a great deal,” Kate says.

“Where is she?”

“She’s in a separate room. She was badly injured a few days before they made it here, and only just regenerated. She was disoriented at first, but she’s stabilizing quickly.”

Kate leaves Martha to a secluded hospital room near the end of the compound, only large enough for single occupant. There’s a small figure on the bed, but before Martha can get a look at her a man steps forward to block her view. He’s a tall, rather handsome man with a youthful face, though it’s hard to see him as such while he’s towering over Martha. He’s wearing a helmet and armor, both in the same dusky red color, and Martha doesn’t doubt that if he wanted to hurt her he could.

“Captain Gastron,” Kate says, quickly stepping forward. “It’s all right. This is Doctor Jones, whom I told you about.”

The man’s intense, dark gaze moves away from Martha. “You’re sure?” He asks, with a faintly lilting accent Martha can’t place. Gallifreyan, she supposes, and her heart skips a beat.

“Absolutely. She’s here to look at Arkytior.”

The captain’s eyes return to Martha’s face. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

Martha takes a deep breath and decides honesty is the best policy. “With humans? Absolutely. With a Time Lord? I don’t know, but probably better than anyone else on this planet.”

Captain Gastron frowns, and then his face slowly smooths over. After a moment he nods. “Forgive my suspicion. We do not wish to see her hurt any further. You may enter, but be gentle. She needs time and rest.”

“I will be, I promise,” Martha says, and steps past him once he lets her, Kate at her back.

The woman on the bed is short, perhaps even shorter than Martha herself, and looks to be the human equivalent of thirty years old. She’s sitting but leans heavily against the pillows, dressed in a variation of the same red robes the other adults wear. A charred bracelet rests around her right wrist. She’s bald, dark stubble smattering across her skull along with a few small scars that run down the back of her neck, which Martha thinks might have been caused by burns. She’s unhealthily pale and dark moons circle her black eyes, but she’s still managed to work up a rather fierce glare.

“If looks could kill, I think I’d be done for,” Martha says, half-jokingly, as Kate takes position next to her and Gastron stands near the bed.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Kate begins, looking for the right term of address.

“Just Arkytior will do,” the Time Lord says, in a hoarse, damaged voice. Her eyes slowly turn to Martha, intense and unblinking. “You’re a doctor?” Her voice carries that same soft lilt that Gastron speaks with.

Martha nods. “Pediatrician, technically, but I have a bit of experience with extraterrestrial beings.”

“A pediatrician. To look after children?”

“That’s right. I can have a look at the children too, if you like.”

“The children are all right,” Gastron says, unprompted. “They do not need your attention.”

Martha bites down a wave of annoyance. “They looked a little shocky, actually. Which can be very dangerous,” she pushes on.

“Why are you here? I will recover with time.” Arkytior sends Kate a questioning look.

Kate straightens out of her usual slouch. “I take it the Brigadier has already been to see you?”

“Yes, earlier. Charming woman,” Arkytior says dryly, and Martha fights not to smile.

Kate doesn’t bother hiding her smile. “Brigadier Bambera is a star, but she’s not one for small-talk. As you know, I am UNIT’s chief scientific officer. Doctor Jones here is one of our lead specialist xeno-biologists.”

“A woman of many talents,” Arkytior comments.

Martha grimaces. “More of an indication of our limited understanding of xenobiology. I’m good, but no one is that good.”

Something like amusement flickers across Arkytior’s face. “Give it time. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Martha finds herself smiling back without meaning to.

“We have no need of a doctor,” Gastron says. “We have two qualified medical officers in our midst. If you have need of their abilities, in return for your hospitality…”

“Nothing of the sort. Consider this a diplomatic meeting, if you will,” Kate says. “Although any knowledge you are willing to share is certainly welcome.”

“I take it you are in charge, then? Not the Brigadier?” Arkytior asks. Her hoarse voice effortlessly pierces through the chatter.

Kate’s smile widens. “It was generally agreed upon that diplomacy and fact-based policy would be more effective when dealing with alien races which, nine times out of ten, are more technologically advanced than we are.”

“Clever.”

“Thank you. We do try.”

“So I suppose you’re here to ask us what we want?”

“I think we all know what you want. A roof over your heads, food in your belly, all on a planet that is under no immediate threat,” Kate says. “All these things we happily offer you. One of your kind has been a great ally to us. All we ask for is a peace treaty of sorts.”

Arkytior narrows her eyes and exchanges a look with Gastron. “I – are you referring to,” she trails off briefly, uncertainly. “The Doctor?”

“He’s something of a regular customer. You know him, then?”

Gastron frowns, and Arkytior smiles in disbelief.

“There isn’t a single Gallifreyan alive today who hasn’t at least heard of him,” she says, after a moment. There’s a dreadful weight in her eyes, a sadness Martha has only seen once before. A shiver runs down her spine.

Kate looks briefly uncomfortable. “Right, yes – that makes sense. He isn’t as well known here, of course, but those of us who have heard of him know his value.”

Arkytior nods slowly, thoughtfully. Martha notices that despite her outward calm, her fists are clenched tightly in her blankets. “As do I,” she says softly.

“Have you contacted him yet? Informed him of your survival?” Kate asks.

“We have no means of communication. Only one TARDIS made it through with us, and she has been whisked off by her pilot in search of other survivors,” Gastron says. He shifts his weight around, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “We hope others might have gotten away as we did.”

“You had a _TARDIS?_ Here?” It’s clearly news to Kate.

Arkytior smiles wryly. “The pilot is family. My great-uncle. It was he who discovered the painting. He has always had… A special interest in the fine arts.” She looks up at Gastron with a mixture of sadness and warmth, which he returns with a look of his own.

“You are selling yourself short, my lady,” he says softly. “Lord Braxiatel found the painting, yes, but it was you who knew what the Master was planning. It was you who insisted on bringing us along, rather than just going by yourselves.”

Arkytior bows her head in acknowledgment. “My uncle meant to save the only remaining family he had. It can be hard to think straight, under such circumstances.”

“It is still no excuse for negligence.”

“He fights for us now,” Arkytior says, more firmly, and Martha thinks that she protects her great-uncle as much as he protects her.

Gastron’s lips thin but he stands back and nods, a quiet acknowledgment.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Martha says, and remembers not knowing what was happening to her family on the Valiant. Tries to imagine all but one dying, and how far she would have gone to get them out. “It was very brave of you to save all these people,” she concludes, and feels her respect for Arkytior grow.

Arkytior smiles tightly. “Thank you. And yet, it was not enough. Braxiatel has not had much luck finding his friends, either, although we know for sure the lady Romana and her coordinator escaped before the end of the war. I don’t suppose they came here..?”

“If they did, they didn’t tell us,” Kate says. She’s frowning in such a way that implies she’s still pondering how sixty-eight refugees walked into her archives and a _TARDIS_ _actually dematerialized from it_ without anyone noticing.

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” Arkytior sighs. Then her brows furrow, her jaws clench and she bends over, clasping her midriff with a groan.

Gastron is at her side in a flash, hovering awkwardly without touching, his face a mask of concern. Martha’s response is only a little bit slower, as she brushes forward and uses her experience to try and see what’s going wrong.

After a moment Arkytior unbends and leans back into the pillows. Her mouth falls open and a single burst of golden energy pours out. Martha watches breathlessly, distracted from the task at hand. Arkytior’s body sags and her eyes almost fall closed. She recovers after a moment of heavy breathing. “Forgive me. This was my first regeneration. I’m… Still adjusting.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Martha says, managing a faint smile. “If there’s anything we can help you with…”

“Perhaps a cup of tea..? Grandfather would swear by it, after a particularly difficult regeneration.”

“Of course.”

They agree to leave working up a treaty until later, once their guest has had time to rest. Kate leaves Martha to work on the logistics of the whole operation, but not before asking her to stay with Arkytior and discover a few more answers. After that it’s the work of a few minutes to get a cup of tea for Arkytior. She clutches it between her hands like a lifeline, and breathes in the hot steam greedily. “Thank you. Perhaps we can discuss this treaty, then? Gastron, if you would give us a minute.”

Gastron visibly hesitates.

“She’s not going to hurt me. Please. I’d rather you look after the children, or see how Sarvinestralix is doing. You know how he struggles.”

Martha sees Gastron’s struggle in the clench of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, but after a moment he clicks his heels together, thumps his closed fist to his chest in what must be a salute, and leaves the room.

Martha manages a smile for Arkytior. “Thank you. I was almost starting to feel like I was an intern again, with all my work being re-checked again and again. Is it okay if I check your blood pressure?”

Arkytior nods, and holds out her left arm.

“Oh, you know how this test works, huh?” Martha smiles, and wraps the band around Arkytior’s upper arm. It begins to whir and slowly puff out.

“I used to live here,” Arkytior says softly.

Martha meets her eyes. “No way. Really?”

“Twice, technically. A few months in the 1960s, and twenty-five years in the twenty-second century.”

“Blimey. What was that like?”

Finally, one corner of Arkytior’s mouth ticks up. “Oh, you lot are not so bad.”

“I’m glad you think so, Arkytior.”

“You can call me Susan, if you like,” Arkytior says. “That’s the name I went by, down here. Susan Fo– Susan Campbell.”

Martha catches the way Arkytior’s – Susan’s – smile fades when she says the wrong name, and squeezes the other woman hand softly. “Susan it is, then. Although I don’t mind saying Arkytior, either. It’s very pretty.”

Susan scrunches up her nose in disagreement. “It’s very old-fashioned. I think I prefer Susan. It sounds better in English.”

Martha decides not to point out that Susan hasn’t been popular since the 1960s, either, and simply nods. The blood pressure machine beeps and Martha takes her readings, quickly jotting them down on a notepad. “Now, I’m not sure what’s normal for you, but we’re just going to keep track of your blood pressure while you’re here and see whether there are any changes, okay?”

Susan nods. “It should be all right. I just need a bit of time to recover.”

“Would you tell me what happened to you? How all of you came to be here?”

Susan nods. Outside, the clouds shift and light filters through the curtains to silhouette her bare skull. She should look fragile, Martha thinks, but instead all she can see is strength. Susan’s stature doesn’t matter – it’s all in the straight line of her spine.

“After the war, Gallifrey was thrown into disarray. We were locked into a bubble dimension, far away from this universe, and still recovering from the final battle. Different factions warred for power, and the wrong faction won. Rassilon continued what he had started during the war by rooting out this political opponents. My, ah – my family have been rather… outspoken, during the war and after, so those of us who remained went into hiding. That is to say,” Susan’s eyelids flutter, “my great-uncle and I went into hiding. There was no one else.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Susan nods curtly. “My great-uncle tried looking for his friends, and – and his brother. I decided to try and help other dissenters. Some of them are here, today. Most of them, though…”

Martha’s gaze drops.

After a moment, Susan clears her throat. “As time passed, our community grew bigger. We started taking in orphans. Then one day, Rassilon was deposed. Things started to calm down. All I know is that my great-uncle returned one day, telling us the Master was planning something big. He wanted to get me out. I refused to leave without trying to save anyone else. So, I gathered as many people as I could.”

A smile creeps into Martha’s face, despite herself. “You saved their lives.”

“Not by myself. Gastron helped. As did my great uncle. _Reluctantly_ ,” Susan adds under her breath.

“Is he the one who discovered the painting?”

“Yes. Kate Stuart won’t like this, but he’s been in and out of your Archive several times.” Susan’s eyes twinkle.

Martha pinches the bridge of her nose. _Time Lords_. “But you’re the one who got these people out.”

“I suppose so.”

It _was_ , Martha thinks. You’re the one Gastron is so protective of.

“How were you injured?” She says instead.

“I was shot. A well-meaning Citadel guard mistook our escape attempt for something else,” Susan says calmly, as though she’s talking about the weather.

“Anything you can tell me about the properties of the gun you are shot with?”

“I will be fine. I just need time. Are you not going to ask me what it means for me to regenerate?”

Martha stills. Susan’s dark eyes peer at her, full of intelligence and something Martha can’t quite place. It’s familiar enough to send a shiver down her spine. She’s seen eyes like those before. She used to dream about those eyes.

“I’ve met someone of your kind before,” Martha admits.

Susan tilts her head slightly, frowning as if in thought. “You have?"

Martha smiles awkwardly, flustered. “I’m sorry for not telling you straightaway. We had to be sure you really are who you say you are. My friend, the bloke I met – the Doctor, he thought he was the only one left. That no one else had survived the war.”

Susan goes still, and for a moment Martha thinks she’s said the wrong thing, somehow. She runs her own words back through her mind, but can’t think of anything that is not the truth. She looks down at her hands instead, only inches away from Susan‘s hand. Hers is still grimy, as though she’s only just left the battlefield.

Instead, Susan begins to chuckle, joyful and low, and when Martha looks up her patient is smiling and there are tears in her eyes.

“You know the Doctor? He is your friend?” Susan asks, her voice almost breaking on the words.

“I – I do. Yeah. Do you know him personally, then?”

“Know him? I – do I know him?” Susan chuckles again, then shakes her head. “We all know him. He ended it.”

“… The war?”

“Yes. He saved us.” Susan closes her eyes and a tear escapes from between her lashes, running down her cheek. “And he was separated from us for so very long. Oh,” and here she adds a word in a peculiar, lyrical language that must be Galifreyan. Martha thinks it sounds terribly sad.

“He’s pretty great,” she agrees, softly.

“Did he really think we were all gone?”

“… Yeah,” Martha says, feeling a lump come up in her own throat. “I’m sorry,” she adds, when Susan’s face falls and more tears run down her cheeks. “Do you know him well?”

“Oh, well –“ Susan smiles tearily. “Yes, I suppose I did, a long time ago.”

Martha waits for her to say anything else, but Susan remains quiet. She looks utterly drained, and Martha realizes she will need to rest soon. “Right. Okay. I… Look, I have to be honest –“

“You’d rather I don’t speak in riddles?” Susan’s face bears a tired, knowing smile.

“Well, yes. I’m sorry. We just need to be sure you’re who you say you are. We had some… Bad experiences, with Time Lords pretending to be someone else.”

Susan nods, then seems to think for a moment. She raises her left hand invitingly. “If you take it, I can show you. I can show you home.”

Martha startles and blinks. Again, the Time Lady before her seems startlingly familiar. She has the same dark eyes, the same grave voice, the same inviting gesture. Martha swallows and shakes it off. It’s her brain, playing tricks on her. Seeing things that aren’t really there.

“Gotta say, just the fact that you are offering what I think you’re offering is pretty telling,” she says instead, trying to sound lighthearted.

“I’ll be gentle. I won’t look at your memories, I promise.”

Martha wonders if she’s about to commit suicide for the sake of a memory. Her curiosity wars with her suspicion, but in the end optimism wins out. She has had years to overcome the Year that Never Was. She’s not the person she was before, but she’s still capable of putting faith in others.

She carefully places her hand in Susan’s cool grip. It feels familiar, almost comforting. Together, they close their eyes, and Martha’s head begins to spin. Images appear in the darkness, of running, running, running, a child’s laughter stuck in her throat as she runs through tall, red grass. Her grandfather laughs as he chases her, before he trips over the root of a silver tree. The scene shifts and she is on a hillside with her father, who points out stars in the alien constellation overhead. Then she’s in a house unlike anything Martha has ever seen, watching her mother paint – she’s running through the city, a glass dome shattering overhead – her boy cries out in pain, tearing at her hearts – the Dalek bomb explodes in the heart of the Panopticon, burning burning burning –

Susan rips her hand away, gasping for air. Martha falls back into her chair. She feels like she’s just run for miles and anxiety shoots down her spine as Susan’s memories rapidly fade. 

“I’m sorry. I thought I would have more control,” Susan pants. “I’m usually rather good at that sort of thing.” She has wrapped her arms tightly around her body, and looks utterly small.

Martha shakes her head, waving away the apology. “S’okay. I just didn’t think I would _feel_ –“ she breaks off, feeling awkward. “That I would feel what you felt.”

Susan looks even paler than before. “Forgive me. I tried to dampen my emotions, but it seems some of it still came through. It’s simply too soon for me to…”

“I’m sorry for pushing you.”

“No, please. It was my own idea. In fact – there’s one more thing I should show you. Something that will convince you that I’m speaking the truth. I think I can manage it.”

Martha briefly hesitates. The blood pressure cuff shows Susan’s blood pressure has gone up in the last few minutes, but it’s not reaching dangerous heights quite yet.

“Okay,” she decides, and gives Susan her hand once more.

Susan takes it, cool fingers soft and delicate on Martha skin. The world disappears again. She’s standing by a bus stop, snow at her feet, and a blue sky overhead. She’s on earth, and by her side her son is shifting impatiently in an attempt to stay warm. “Is he really going to come?” The boy asks, and then the air is filled with a familiar groaning, grinding noise that Martha could recognize even in her sleep. The blue box lands before them with a thump and out of it steps an unfamiliar man with cheerful blue eyes and brown curls. “Grandfather!” Susan cries, and as she falls into his embrace Martha falls back into Susan’s memories, back to Gallifrey, back to home, where an older man with a different face but the same hearts takes her by the hand and steals her way into the TARDIS for the very first time.

“ _Oh,_ ” Martha sighs, when she returns to her own body. “He’s – the _Doctor_ is –“

“Yes,” Susan says, as tears slide slowly down her cheeks. “He is.”

Martha smiles through tears of her own. “Then I’d better make a phone call.”

* * *

_**Gallifrey, year unknown.** _

The Doctor kicks up dust with every step she takes. The summit is not much further, after a much shorter hike than she remembers it being. Mount Solitude is shorter, perhaps, or she’s just older. There’s even less of Gallifrey left than before the Master got there. She had to see it, though. She had to be sure there was no one is left. The silence echoes through her mind like a drum. How often had she climbed this mountain as a boy, much to the consternation of her parents?

Jack is a few feet behind her, as solemn and quiet as it is possible for him to be. They’re still in their red overalls, which only serves to remind her more deeply of the last few times she came here. She’d been so young, then, so naïve. Gallifrey had been so beautiful. Jack’s eyes are wide as he takes everything in, but whenever he catches her eyes he manages a bolstering smile. She’s grateful for his presence, and the way his particular being buzzes at the edge of her mind, prickling her time senses. It’s the closest substitute for the Time Lord hive mind she can think of.

They reach the summit before long. The cave is still there, somehow, where an old hermit Time Lord had long ago made his home and patiently taught a young, impetuous, inter-loping boy a thing or two about the universe. He had been her first mentor. When had he died, anyway? In the war? Surely long before that. She couldn’t remember. Had she never visited him, after leaving the planet? It’s another thing to feel guilty about.

Jack stays near the entrance of the cave, at a respectful distance, and overlooks the planet below. The Doctor can’t stand to do the same. The valley below is too empty. Her family home is long gone.

She can’t quite catch her breath. There’s a ledge in one of the walls that she remembers sitting on as a boy. She’d been short enough to let her legs dangle, back then, but now her toes scraped the stone floor when she sits. She can’t _breathe_. Tears are sliding down her nose and onto her lap. She can’t _breathe_.

There’s a noise outside and Jack shouts at her, but it doesn’t immediately register. She’s sobbing in a way she hasn’t in years, because it’s _real_ now, so much more real than before, because now the Master is dead too and she is truly alone. A small part of her brain registers that Jack is talking to someone but she dismisses it because the pain is too big, too all-encompassing. She hears footsteps echoing through the cave and assumes it’s Jack, feels a faint buzz of a mind pressing against her own, hears a deep voice say, “ _Thete_.”

She looks up.

Brax has a new face. He’s stuck to the same theme, of course, with blue eyes, dark hair, pale skin. But it’s him. She knows her brother’s mind nearly as well as her own, and it’s right there, he is right there, kneeling before her. She can’t _breathe_.

“Dearest Thete,” he croaks tearfully, in glorious Gallifreyan. “How we have neglected you. Will you come home with me?”

She takes his hand and, for the first time in centuries, throws herself into the eager embrace of _family_.

**Author's Note:**

> I genuinely don't know if I'll write more for this little universe, aside from possibly something about Jenn. Let me know if you liked it nonetheless!
> 
> \- According to the TARDIS WIKI Martha was born in 1986, making her about thirty-one in 2019. She is married to Mickey and they have a son named August (that's canon!), who I estimate was born around 2014. Mickey was born in 1983, making him thirty-four in 2019. 
> 
> \- Gastron is the young Time Lord soldier in Hell Bent portrayed by Malachi Kirby. Yes, Gastron is his actual name. If he were mine, he’d have a name that’s a little less reminiscent of a certain Disney villain, but hey. He’s a cool guy. He served with the Doctor, for crying out loud.
> 
> \- With 67 refugees plus 1 Doctor & 1 Brax, that puts the Time Lord race at a very meme-worthy total, though I’m sure the joke would go right over 13’s head. Didn’t realize I’d done it until halfway through writing this thing, and then I couldn’t bring myself to undo it. If the joke’s too cringy for you, just imagine Jenny is still out there somewhere, bringing the total to a safe, innuendo-free 70.
> 
> \- I couldn’t decide whether I liked Tatiana Maslaney or Samira Wiley best as a face-claim for Susan, so let your imagination go wild. As for Brax, I rather liked Cillian Murphy.


End file.
